


Mirage from Afar

by Acteon_Carolsfeld



Series: Days of Wine and Roses [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bittersweet Ending, Bottom Thranduil, Domestic, F/M, M/M, Mention of - Freeform, Mpreg, Multi, Rating will change, Top Thorin, for now, thoranduil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-12 13:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5667862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acteon_Carolsfeld/pseuds/Acteon_Carolsfeld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Post-botfa AU] Thranduil returns to Erebor in hopes of quenching an affliction he can no longer abide. Thorin does not make it an easy endeavor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Singe

I want a trouble-maker for a lover,

Blood spiller, blood drinker, a heart of flame,

Who quarrels with the sky and fights with fate,

Who **burns like fire on the rushing sea**.

– Rumi

* * *

 

** Singe **

“Congratulations, Dwarvenking.”

The stone was cold under his feet, as though the slow thawing of frost.

“There are _few_ who can boast of having approached an Elf undetected.”

His voice echoed within the high dome above, shrouded in shadow. In the distance, a melodious tapping of water strummed, that of condensation gathering to glimmering pearls before plunging to their end against glistening rock.

“My intention wasn’t to sneak.” Footsteps neared, muffled by the soles of heavy boots.

A rustle of fur.

“You are in my garden.” Thorin, now King Under the Mountain, emerged from the shade of a stone column. The towering structure gleamed with ripples of protrusions, dips and swells sculpted by the weathering of underground reservoirs long since ebbed and gathered into ponds.

Thranduil looked up through his curtain of silver hair, dark lashes aquiver. The flame of the torch in Thorin’s hand cast a shivering silhouette, that of long robe plastered to a lithe frame, a stretch of distortion melting into the dark where the light could not reach.

“Your garden has neither blossom nor shrub.” Thranduil said, slender digits with chilled tips intertwined in a loose embrace between parted thighs.

Thorin pinned him with a stare, lips set in a firm line. He raised the torch, toward the ceiling. “The Hanging Garden of Erebor.” He announced, the boisterous sound filling the hollow of cavernous abode. “Until now, only Dwarves had beheld its glory in wonder of the mountain.”

Thranduil lifted his gaze, head tilting back, as the flame chased away the veil of black. A flaxen forest hovered above them, cascades of limestone roots nigh translucent cast by the film of misted moisture. Fossils telling of age and wear, tipped and wrinkled with folds and grooves. They resonated a mirage of olden trees, that of moss and foliage and branches and twigs.

Thranduil watched the shadow dance to the rhythm of the flame. There appeared to be a draft, which was odd, considering the dead of the place.

“What does an _Elf_ hope to discover in a cave damp as this?” Thorin lowered the torch, leaving only the very ends of the dangling stone formations visible to curious eyes.

Thranduil did not answer, keen on the studying of rock.

“How did you wander here at all?” A grunt of sorts, as though begrudging one not of his kin intruding on sacred space. “How do you see without the aid of light?”

“I _had_ light.” Thranduil replied, and returned his gaze to his interlace of fingers. “I lost it, so I took a seat in hopes my absence will rouse a search party. I didn’t expect the King himself to come looking for me.”

On his peripheral, he could catch the Dwarf staring at him with all the enthusiasm of a blind fish.

“There _hasn’t_ been a search party.” Thorin snorted as though the notion struck his humour. “Dawn slumbers deep in the horizon still. I was on my way to a stroll when you disrupted it.”

“How woeful a misfortune,” Thranduil quipped, “to have your nightly walk foiled by your most despised of folk.”

For a moment, fire flashed in Thorin’s eyes. To Thranduil’s surprise, no flare of temper answered his drawl meant to enrage. Thorin merely pursed his lips, and took a breath so loud that he might as well have summoned the rumbling of thunder. Dwarves were such noisy creatures, stirring commotion wherever they went.

“Where are your shoes?” The gruff voice of his host broke his thoughts, a question denoting genuine confusion. The lack of snarl and bite reminded Thranduil of the sprinkled streaks of silver in the other’s hair, and the gradual deepening of lines in the once soft face.

“I decided against them.” Weariness ladened the Elvenking’s shoulders. “The carpeting of soft grass in my forest renders them useless, so discarding them had become habit over time.”

“You miss your woods.”

“I do.”

“Is my hospitality so atrocious that a _single day_ cannot pass without your _griping_?” This time, the voice did carry a scowl. Thorin strode forward, a storm on his features, but such was merely the passion of a king, born and bred to lead a people, noted for his frank and excitable temperament.

“Does the thought irk you?” Thranduil knew he shouldn’t jibe, but the airy lilt slipped through his lips faster than thought.

Thorin stood beside him, for once in the advantage of height. “ _Years_ we’ve laboured to restore the glory of my grandfather’s halls. _Months_ we’ve exerted to dress the floors of our guest chambers with the hide of our catch to save your delicate, Elven skin from balking at the cold of mountain stone. The cooks in our kitchens studied your palates. The maids aired your rooms with incense of flowers and bark. Even the water in your bath and basin came from a river free of the musk of underground lakes, and _here you sit_ : grumbling and whining like a babe.”

The words hissed. Calloused digits gripped tighter the wood of the torch.

“If you have no interest in forging alliance with us, Elvenking,” Thorin spat the title through gritted teeth, “ _Leave_. Let us not waste our time.”

Thranduil swirled toward the Dwarf, a clench in his jaws and a dagger in his eyes. “Had I no interest in establishing trade with Erebor, I wouldn’t have come.” This was not what he’d wanted to say.

“Then why do you sulk in my garden?” Thorin snapped in reply, the clip of his words deep in his chest. “Have I not the luxury of peace as long as you travel my halls?”

“Your claims of good-will _insult_ me.” Thranduil shoved from the stone upon which he sat, a swift motion of slender limbs that swished the drape of his robe.

Thorin glared, the set of his face an exact recall of the expression he wore when he cursed Thranduil before his woodland throne.

“You wish only the ill of me,” Thranduil hissed, “so why this pretense of diplomacy?” He bowed so that the narrow of his eyes bore straight into Thorin’s icy stare. “Where is your _spite_ , Durinson? Have you lost your pride when they made you king?”

Thick digits seized him, a fist of golden locks. The torch swung in the air, flames a crackling billow.

Thranduil gasped. His hand shot up to clutch the left of his face. Blue eyes widened, glinting with an old fear under the fire. Soft lips tinted rose fell quivering apart, hitching in breaths that heaved his pale chest beneath the thin wrap of silk. His other hand buried into the fur covering the Dwarvenking’s shoulder, knuckles white. Whether to tug or push, he did not know, gaping forward with all the alarm of a terror-stricken doe, caught before the point of an arrow.

“…Do you crave my contempt, Elvenking?” Thorin peered, eyes steeled, footing as immovable as the foundation of the mountain he governed. “Do you revel in the ache of my fingers around your manes?” The fist tightened.

Thranduil shivered, knees weak, threatening to topple beneath his slight weight.

“What do you hope to gain from me?” The fist pulled, inch by inch, until the air between their lips mingled and their heat buzzed. “We Dwarves have not the _leisure_ for the play of Elves.” Thorin’s eyes blazed like dragonfire. “Had I looked upon another with the way you gawked at my body, I would have claimed them on the first night of our introduction.” The words snarled. “Are you too meek of heart, or do you simply blush at the idea of being stripped and mounted by one you deem repulsive?”

A tremor of thrill sprung through his spine. His hand left his cheek, and grasped the Dwarf by the front of his robe. Overcome, Thranduil yanked Thorin toward him, and met the other’s lips with a kiss, bruising, frantic, flushed by the hammering within his chest. Long, slim digits combed through the tangles of dark, waved curls. His urgent respiration huffed against chapped skin, the prickling of beard rough against his smooth face. His tongue darted, pleading to engage, to be allowed passage so their breaths could at last join as one. Lashes fluttering closed, Thranduil sighed a moan at their closeness, and paid no heed to the growing pressure at the roots of his seized hair until a sharp blossom of pain buckled him to his knees.

A wince furrowed his brows. A wavering yelp startled from his throat. Thranduil opened his eyes, and looked up at the Dwarvenking, hands still entangled in the other’s hair. Breathing ragged, he searched the hard face for any sign of reciprocation. However, to the broadening chill in his heart, he found none, only a slight glimpse under hooded lids of a look meant to spurn.

“I will ask again,” Thorin watched him, “what do you hope to gain from me?” His intentional withhold of emotion drenched Thranduil in dawning dread. “Do you wish to wed? To join our kingdoms through matrimony?” Thorin tilted his head, a frown forming above his narrowing eyes. “Elves do not give themselves lightly.” His gaze cooled. “I have no interest in threatening our relations with the whims of heart.”

Thranduil stared, outrage searing his insides. “What does a _Dwarf_ know of Elves?” He shouted, the burst of sound spearing between the walls of the mountain.

Thorin kept silent, lips pressed.

“… _Devious_ , Thorin Oakenshield,” Thranduil gritted, eyes pinching to slits, “of you to refuse me with your fist in my hair.”

The quiet of the cave weighed around them, stale and moist to the tongue.

Thorin simmered just behind the bright of his eyes. “Even a _Dwarf_ would know _Thranduil_ would never bend his knees unless he _means_ to.” He said, one last clench around silver manes before his digits unraveled from the soft strands of shimmering starlight.

Thranduil gaped, eyes gleaming, as his hair fell, a soft caress to his cheeks. The cold of the cave claimed him at last, and he shivered, breaths turning to mist before his lips. In his shock, he barely noticed the unlatching of his hands from Dwarven robe. He clutched his arms, fingers digging into flesh sheltered only by a silk gown.

Thorin studied him, and relinquished his pretense of aloofness with a sigh. Passing the torch from hand to hand, he shrugged off his coat fringed with fur, and threw it over Thranduil’s back.

It was still warm, thick with the Dwarvenking’s scent.

“You talk so freely of your hatred of my people,” Thorin murmured, “yet you’d allow me to force you to prostrate before me.” He adjusted the coat over Thranduil’s shoulders, eyes not meeting the blue glare shining with frost and fury. “I haven’t forgiven you.” The Dwarvenking said, “Thus, I cannot lay you in my bed.”

Thranduil swallowed his retort, and dropped his gaze, the usual lash of his tongue stunned and curbed by shame. He wrapped his hands over the rim of the coat, and tugged it tighter around him.

“But, like you said,” Thorin stepped back, “a hundred years is a mere blink in the life of an Elf.” For a moment, his touch lingered. “Dwarves are stubborn, though I cannot promise my grudge with you will last a hundred years.”

Thranduil blinked. Roused by surprise, he looked up, but Thorin had already turned on his heels, walking toward the archway from which he’d entered.

“Come, Elvenking. I will return you to your quarters.”

Thranduil watched the long ooze of shadow across the floor, cast from the flame of the torch. Slowly, he rose to his feet, bare against the damp stone.

“What of your stroll, King Under the Mountain?” He asked, following his guide, strides light as he glided across the cave with the tail of his robe fluttering behind him.

“I’ve seen enough of you for the night.” Echoed his only answer.

For the rest of their way, Thorin did not disclose another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse anything that sounds dumb. I'm super new to the fandom, so I'm intimidated by everything and everyone. I also come from a background of writing robots, so switching to organics has been...a journey.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feedback would be lovely. <3


	2. Simmer

Speech Key **:**

“ _All Italics_ ” – Sindarin  
“Regular Text” – Westron

* * *

 

**Simmer**

Three winters without invitation.

Three winters without a single word to bid good will or the lack of it.

Three winters without visitation or messenger, or even a raven to reassure that the Dwarven kingdom of Erebor had indeed reclaimed its root and flourished.

‘ _The son of Thrain holds firm but fair over his subjects._ ’ Bard wrote in his letter. ‘ _His treasure hoard has diminished, but his halls have warmed, purging his home of the last sickness of serpents._ _Has he not requested a visit of you, Lord Thranduil? He’s sent many envoys to the city of Dale, and many more on goats to kingdoms and trading posts afar. I was sure one of them was intended for you._ ’

Thranduil almost hurled the parchment into the fire out of sheer envious spite.

Who was it that found Thorin Oakenshield bleeding pallid with a sobbing Halfling at his side?

Who was it that assumed the strenuous mantle of dragging the King Under the Mountain until healers flocked and shed his armour?

Dwarves were built like boulders, dead weight unfathomable in origin trapped in a stock stature that was painstakingly difficult to carry or toss over the shoulder of an Elf. Thranduil has never stumbled so many times in his entire long life, and if it weren’t for the help of the Hobbit, he wouldn’t have emerged from Ravenhill with only a few scrapes on his knees.

Ironfoot had laughed at the Elvenking’s plight, making slight of his strength, and that was the only confidence Thranduil received that Thorin would live.

Face scrunched in reluctance, Thranduil took up a pen, and composed a reply to Bard, asking of his family and the rebuild of their home. He pointedly ignored the question regarding Dwarven messengers in his woods, instead dedicating paragraphs to how much he reveled and celebrated the peace and quiet of his forest, free of rude, filthy trespassers covered in webs stinking up his dungeon and echoing his halls with outcries of profanity.

Three goblets of wine later, he tossed the draft into the fire, and began another more befitting of his title.

There was a knock on his door.

“ _Enter_.” He said, without a glance to check who it was that sought his company.

“ _Good tidings, my Lord_.” Tauriel strode in, and took a curt bow beside his table. “ _Many letters for you to review. One from the Prince_.”

Thranduil perked up, reply to Bard forgotten, and reached for the parchment in her hand.

The scribblings of his son, despite its hazardous appearance to intelligent eyes, brought a smile to the Elvenking’s lips. Tales of inns and townsfolk filled the page, as did recounts of roads paved with grass and mud and pebble. Too soon, the letter ended with the customary well-wishes of an Elf too mindful of his father’s station. However, Thranduil’s lips only tilted higher, as at the bottom corner of the page was a single leaf, secured by paste, tender from the first inkling of spring in warmer lands.

A cough jolted his eyes away from the pages of his son. Irritated, Thranduil frowned at the Captain of his guard, and turned in his chair to face her. “ _Why are you still here?_ ” He asked.

“ _There’s…something else, my Lord_.” Tauriel’s eyes twinkled. She could barely withhold her grin. “ _A visitor from Erebor. He waits before your throne_.”

Thranduil stilled. For many moments, he merely stared at the maiden in the midst of his quarters. As though startled, he sprung from his seat, and reached the mirror in three strides. “ _My robe_.” He instructed as he flattened the strays of his hair with his fingers, and huffed at his Captain when she brought him the gown he’d worn during the day. “ _No. A_ fresh _one_.” He waved his hand, urging her to hurry. “ _The one embroidered with gold vines and gems at the cuffs_.”

If Tauriel stifled a laugh at her king’s antics, it was decidedly overlooked.

When the great Elvenking Thranduil finally arrived at his throne in a flurry of fabrics, he was disappointed to find Kili’s beaming face, smeared with love-struck wonder toward a pair of eyes just behind his shoulder. He cursed his folly, which, in hindsight, was nothing short of ridiculous. Of _course_ it couldn’t have been Thorin. What had he expected? An unannounced visit from the King Under the Mountain himself?

For the rest of his evening, Thranduil lounged on his throne, and schooled his expression from that of a glower at a young Dwarf too interested in his Captain to notice his ire. Kili brought a formal invite, expressing the hospitality of his uncle to the Elvenking for a stay of a fortnight in Erebor. This should have brought Thranduil much joy, and he _was_ pleased. However, his naïve bout of hope of finding Thorin before his throne had aroused the inevitable realization that the one he wanted to see most was no longer a prince without land or court, but a king with a mountain to rule.

Someone with far greater purpose than entertaining precarious relations with an Elven lord.

* * *

 

More oftentimes than not, Thranduil caught himself bewildered by how agitated of heart he’s become. Perhaps it was the leave of his son, as the absence of his vibrant Greenleaf incited constant loss from his breast, depriving him of his most favoured distraction. Time treaded at a sluggish pace. The sun dragged across the sky by the endless passing of day. Ever since his reunion with homeless Dwarven royalty, the illness that had spawned many years prior returned with the ferocity of a starved-sick beast. It simply hadn’t become evident until the rush of battle ended and his son rode off for greater adventures outside his woods.

The illness was glaring in prominence now, as Thranduil hid under furs on a bed not of his own, feigning sleep in hopes to forget the lapse of judgement transpired within a garden of stone. The shame hadn’t been unbearable while the surreal incredulity of the situation still permeated his mind. Now, it felt as though daggers, rending curses to fall from his lips as he berated himself for such hasty reveal of his secret yearning.

The room within which he tossed and turned was lavish in design and furnishing, reeking of perfumed rugs and burning oils. Thorin had not exaggerated. Every smell one could possibly discover in a forest was crammed into this chamber, in a futile attempt to overpower the brisk cold of mountain stone thick in the reluctant approach of spring. There was dampness in the air, one without the musk of moss. The dry crackling of the hearth merely masked the scent of wetness, leaving a chill ever present should any limb slipped out from under furs.

Thranduil had contemplated wearing more than a nightshirt to bed, but his tenacity in preserving at least _some_ resemblance of normalcy snipped the thought right in its bud. Hence he laid, stewing in the aftermath of getting lost and subsequent rescuing of his host. Thorin had brought up a good point: What _did_ he hope to accomplish by throwing himself at the Dwarf?

A string of knocks on his door disrupted his ponderings, followed by a familiar voice.

“It is morning, my Lord.” Tauriel called, voice muffled by the thick pane of wood. “Your appointment at breakfast awaits.”

Thranduil sagged into the bed with a sigh. A moment later, the door opened, and light feet pattered in, joined by the quiet splashing of water.

Blocks of wood clattered into the fire. Maids murmured as they drew up the screens and started a bath. A new batch of flowers plopped into the vases, shy buds on branches from trees undeterred by the lingering snow.

“My Lord?”

Bound by duty to attend breakfast, Thranduil sat up with all the grumble his dignity could allow, and thanked Tauriel with a nod as she draped a cloak over his shoulders. Head buzzing with the need for rest, he stared at the bustle before him, that of Elves and Dwarf servants working together to warm the room and heat up the bath. Under the watchful eyes of his Captain, a row of attendants approached his bedside, each carrying a platter. The first held a goblet of water, the second a golden urn. Thranduil picked up the goblet, and rinsed his mouth before spitting into the urn behind a polite hand. He then received a cloth to dab his lips, and a plate on which to dispose of it. Feeling a slight more refreshed after the routine, he slipped off the bed, and drew the cloak tighter around his frame.

“I will wear the silver gown to breakfast, the one with threaded leaves that shimmer in the light.” Thranduil said as he walked toward the bath, long legs peeking from the slit of the cloak. Behind him, Tauriel bowed. She murmured to the servants, and oversaw the gathering of other pieces that complemented the robe in colour and texture.

Once behind the screen, Thranduil slipped off the cloak, and then his nightshirt. Handing them to an attendant, he stepped into the bath, and sank into the water with a quiet exhale. An Elf maid gathered and held his hair to ensure it stayed dry, as this ritual was purely for warmth and comfort. Steam rolled in lazy waves, and Thranduil soaked in the heat, reclined with his knees curled and head resting against a cushion at the edge of the tub.

A servant approached his side, presenting him with a basin of water and oils sprinkled with dried herbs. Another appeared, holding toward him a cloth. Taking the cloth, he steeped it into the basin, and brought it to his face, taking extra care to press gently on his left cheek, where magic hid old scars. The oils moistened his skin, leaving it soft and dewy. Once finished, he dismissed the servants, and dozed in the tub until the tips of his ears flushed pink and blood coursed hot in his veins.

Stepping out of the bath and onto a rug, he turned around, and allowed the maids to wrap him in a towel and a robe for warmth. A stool has already been placed by the hearth. He took a seat, and waited while attendants combed his hair and dabbed ointment onto his face. The hot bake of crackling fire dried his body. He watched it dance, and shook his head when a serf inquired which crown he would like to wear.

“I won’t be wearing a crown,” He said. “This is breakfast. There’s no need for formality.”

And yet, when the Elvenking arrived at the banquet chamber, he found himself the only one adequately dressed and groomed for company.

“Thranduil of Mirkwood,” Thorin gave him a nod from the head of the table. “Any later, there won’t be food for you left.” He appeared to be in good spirits, clothed in a simple shirt unbuttoned at the collar and a coat thrown over his shoulders. “Sit.” He gestured to the empty chair by his right. “I’ll have them bring your breakfast.”

“Thank you kindly, King Under the Mountain.” Thranduil bowed his head, and took his seat. Tauriel stood just behind the back of his chair, moving only when the maids arrived with food, swarming the table around Thranduil with apples, dried berries, greens, and salted pork with pomegranate garnish.

That wasn’t all. A platter ringed with toasted bread followed the first round of plates, each topped with a generous coating of various jams and cut into bite-sized strips. Stuffed baked eggs caught the attention of everyone at the table, rousing groggy eyes with their savory aroma. Milk and juice poured into goblets. A bowl of soup steamed. There was even a pie, crisp and golden, still fresh with the heat of the oven.

Thranduil realized, with slight awe in his gaze, that everything brought out was intended for him alone. He looked at the feast before him, and then at the small plates of meat and grapes scattered around the rest of the table. “Are you hoping to feed me _once_ for the entirety of my stay, King Thorin?” He asked, a spark of stunned humour in his eyes. “Surely I will never taste hunger again should I finish what you’ve presented me.”

Thorin grunted, and waved a casual hand. “What you can’t finish will go to the cooks,” He said as he tore a piece of bread from his plate. “But you should eat.” A glance swept over Thranduil’s seated figure without even a hint of discretion, and Thranduil wondered if the Dwarf was not usually an early-riser.

“Of course.” Thranduil tilted his head in a courteous smile. He picked a little from each dish, trying not to overwhelm his plate, but a pile accumulated regardless. Opting first for the egg, as it appeared to have required the most work, he cut a small piece, and took it into his mouth. However, before he could chew, he came about the disconcerting realization that every Dwarf at the table was… _staring_ at him.

Thranduil looked up, wide-eyed, fork still lingering in the air. Upon closer study, he noticed that every seat at the table aside from his own was occupied by a Dwarf from the original company seeking to reclaim the Lonely Mountain. They were watching him, breaths held for a reaction, some mid-bite on a piece of bread or meat. Even Kili had his attention on the Elvenking, for once not dreamy-eyed at the redhead hovering behind Thranduil’s shoulder.

Thranduil chewed once, twice, thrice, and swallowed. “…It’s good.” He said.

A collective grin overtook the table. Some even clapped each other on the back and cheered.

Thranduil frowned. What was this nonsense?

“We are glad you enjoy our food, Lord Thranduil.” Balin smiled, a head of snow nodding at the Elvenking. “Thorin has been exceptionally strict with the kitchen to ensure you received only the best.” Aged eyes glittered with mischief. “He even rose early to oversee the preparations himself, not that he knows anything of the culinary arts for his opinion to worth even a single coin.”

Frown easing to a raised brow, Thranduil turned toward his host, a tilt of question. However, Thorin seemed far too busy glowering at his Counsellor to return the look, much to the merriment of the rest of the table.

“Are _you_ a good cook, my Lord?” Fili piped up, jolting his brother out of his shameless winking at the Captain of the Elvenking’s guard.

Thranduil blinked, and straightened a slight in his chair. He didn’t expect anyone to entertain such a topic. “I know of a few recipes, yes.” He said. “Though centuries have passed since the last time I’d stepped before a stove.”

“The Great Elvenking _Thranduil_ knows the way of stoking fires and preparing a meal?” Thorin snorted, the gesture decidedly more childish than kingly. “There’s more to cooking than sticking anything you can find into a boiling pot.”

Thranduil pursed his lips, and took a terse sniff. “I’d made _many_ delicacies for Legolas when he was an Elfling.” He lifted his chin at the Dwarvenking. “He found them delicious, so much so that he refused to eat anything else for a time.”

Thorin met his eyes in equal challenge. “What changed his mind?” He asked.

“A King’s place is on the _throne_.” Thranduil answered, brisk as a winter breeze.

“So he _didn’t_ get tired of eating the only thing you’re good at making.” Thorin had the audacity to bite back a smile.

Thranduil startled, caught on one of his very few shortcomings. Blue eyes widened. Pale cheeks started to warm. “…This is _breakfast_.” The Elf huffed, and swirled back to his plate. “Not a conference on my homely endeavors.” He stuffed his mouth, and ignored the knowing grin on Thorin’s face.

Across the table, Kili waggled his brows at Tauriel, eyes glimmering half-moons as he chewed. Tauriel pressed her lips to swallow a laugh, and gave her head a quick shake, a glance of purpose toward her king.

Thranduil did not need eyes to see what transpired behind him. He ignored the antics in favour of tossing broody glances at his most gracious host.

Chatter filled the air, broken periodically by a bout of jest and laughter. One by one, the Dwarves departed with a flourish bow, until only half of the previous party remained. Thranduil focused on his plate, and exchanged polite words with Balin whenever addressed.

A sudden slam against the table silenced the chamber. Heads turned, and round eyes gaped at the source of the sound.

Thorin stood from his chair, both hands pressed flat on the table. “I will survey my kingdom after lunch.” He announced, a look of flame in his eyes as though bracing an army at his gates. “Elvenking,” His hair swished as he jerked his head to face Thranduil, “Will you come with me?” He asked, pinning Thranduil with the same intensity in his gaze. “I heard Elf-kind enjoy frolicking in the meadows.” His words echoed inside the room.

Thranduil stared, a bit taken back by the mismatch of friendly words and their downright _frightful_ delivery. “It’s…barely spring.” He said, voice a whisper compared to Thorin’s. “There are no meadows.”

For a long moment, silence droned.

“So you concede.” Thorin inquired, a furrow between his brows.

“…Yes…?” Thranduil replied, still somewhat wide-eyed.

“ _Good_.” Thorin nodded, and straightened from the table. “I will meet you at the stables after lunch.” With that, he left, all but fleeing out the door with heavy stomps – again, as though before a battle.

Thranduil watched, a frown of bewilderment on his fair face. He couldn’t make sense of it, the invite which was only natural but spoken in such a strange manner, outmatched in oddity only by the outburst of noise preceding it.

_By the grace of the Valar…_

He blinked away his shock, and turned back to his plate of food.

Spare him from the enigma that was the inner-workings of Dwarves.

He shook his head to clear the shroud of confused thought, and skewered a berry with his fork. Despite his overall confusion, a small, treacherous part of him chittered excitedly, murmuring promise of kisses and wondering which riding robe to wear. He snuffed it with a scrunch-faced twitch, and berated his heart for its quickening beat.

Across from the table, Balin smiled.

Thranduil didn’t dare consider its meaning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoy writing Thranduil getting pampered. I don’t know why. It just feels indulgent, and smelling nice is always fun.
> 
> Many thanks for the views, kudos, and lovely comments! Hope you enjoyed this chapter as well. The next one will be longer.


	3. Scorch

** Scorch **

 “How many gowns did you bring?” Thorin asked in way of greeting, standing beside his pony with a brush in his hand.

“Ten of each garment,” Thranduil stopped before him, a small lift on the corners of his lips. “This is more suitable for riding.” He held out his arms, revealing a knee-length robe under the thick cloak fending off the weather.

Thorin gave him a once-over before turning back to his pony. Dressed in leathers and furs with glinting peeks of metal, he looked more ready for battle than a ride in the country, heavy and stout compared to the pale, long radiance that was the Elvenking.

“You tend to your pony yourself?” Thranduil asked as he watched Thorin brush the pony.

“When I have time to spare.” Thorin answered. “When I don’t, I spoil her with apples.”

Thranduil smiled, head dipping to hide the expression, and glided across the cushion of hay toward his elk.

“You’re taking the elk?” Thorin asked. “Is he accustomed to steep climbs of rock?” He plopped the brush into a bucket at the door of his pony’s stall.

“We’re crossing the mountain?” Thranduil frowned.

“No,” Thorin replied, “but our route weaves on sharp slopes. You’d best take one of the horses.”

Thranduil stared between the pony and the Dwarvenking.

Thorin blasted a sigh, a glimmer of incredulity in his eyes. “You will _not_ be riding a _pony_.” He said. “I will not have your hair scrape the earth and shed across my land.” With a flick of a glance, Thorin walked past the Elf, and unlatched the stall at the back of the stables. “I prepared a horse for you, scaled to your height.” A white horse with long manes emerged, eyes keen, hooves clicking where the ground was bare. “His name is Ambi.” Thorin patted the horse on the neck. “He is young, but he is trained and strong. He’s been itching for a journey, and if anyone can tame his enthusiasm, it would be you.”

“You make a gift to me, mountain king?” Thranduil approached the horse, fascinated by the spirit of the animal, who returned his gaze unabashed and curious.

“We Dwarves ride ponies, goats, and boars. I had no use for him otherwise.” Thorin replied, words decidedly more marked than required, and handed the rein to Thranduil. “Is he sufficient?” He strode back to his pony, and saddled her instead of looking at the Elvenking.

Thranduil stroked the horse. “Yes.” He murmured. “Though…allow me a moment alone with my elk before we depart.” He smiled with a furrow between his brows, silver hair spilling down his shoulder as he turned. “He doesn’t take well to me riding a creature he considers lesser than he.”

Thorin leveled him with a stare. “Everything associated with Elves is troublesome.” He shook his head, and led his pony out of the stables. However, he did not refute the Elvenking’s request, and waited until Thranduil appeared atop the white horse, shimmering under the rays of the sun.

* * *

 

“So much for being our escorts.” Thorin snorted as he watched his nephew race the Elf maiden up an incline of dried grass and stone, kicking up black soil from the meager blanket of frost and snow. “I don’t know why I thought him genuinely concerned for me when I was well-aware you Captain is accompanying us.”

Thranduil let out a breath of laughter, a cloud before his lips. “You should rejoice, King Under the Mountain. You have what you came for.” Blue eyes twinkled as they met those of the Dwarvenking’s. “There – an Elf frolics.”

As though summoned, Tauriel shouted challenge and laughed as she flew across the slope on her steed. Kili chased after her, swearing victory despite his unlikely odds, pots and pans jangling on either sides of his goat.

Thorin made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a stifled chortle. “I bet you five silver coins that Kili wins.”

Thranduil raised a brow. “Tauriel clearly has victory in sight.”

“Then this will be an easy wager for you.”

Thranduil studied the Dwarf, lashes draped across the blue of his eyes. Thorin obviously knew something he didn’t, but he was not about to betray the Captain of his guard for a measly bet.

“Indeed.” The Elvenking said, tone cool and the lift of his chin haughty and assured. “I will take this wager.”

As they ascended to the ridge of the hill, Thranduil finally understood why Thorin was confident Kili would come out victorious. An abrupt decline littered with rocks lay before them. Where Tauriel’s horse lurched and slid, Kili’s goat leapt with grace, at least until the Dwarven prince got ahead of himself and lost their sack of potatoes to a sudden jolt.

The last stretch of the race was spent collecting their dinner scattered across Thorin’s kingdom. In the end, the two decided on a tie, but the Elvenking paid his dues regardless, as Kili would have won had he tied the sack more snugly.

“After the snow melts, I plan on cultivating this land.” Thorin explained once they reached the top of a higher hill, overlooking a plain that stopped at a river. “Grains and corn, with canals separating the fields.” He swept an arm across the skyline. “My advisor of agriculture informed me this earth is ripe. Preparing it may take a month or two, building the canals even more, but we have amble time until autumn, during which we will plant our first wheat. Come summer of next year, we will be celebrating a generous harvest.”

“Will it be enough,” Thranduil studied the land before them, “to provide for all within the Mountain?”

“Dwarves rely equally on bread and meat. Meat perhaps more.” Thorin replied, words misting before his lips. “I hope to find more land like this, and establish Erebor as a provider of grains as well as gems.”

Thranduil frowned, and turned to Thorin. “…You want to _farm_.” Was this a jest? A farming Dwarf?

Thorin sent him a glance of humour. “My subjects wore the same look when I proposed the idea.”

Thranduil reared a slight, and uttered a small huff. “I’m not _concerned_ if that’s what you are insinuating.”

“No, you wouldn’t be.” Thorin seconded with a chipper tone. “The Mountain hoards an immeasurable wealth, but gold will not feed us should long winters or droughts befall Middle Earth. Erebor is in need of a different treasury, one that will sustain us should food run scarce.”

“A sound plan.” Thranduil whispered, gaze dropping in memory of harsh times.

“Which is why I brought you here.” Thorin turned, seeking the eyes of the Elvenking. “I would like to establish trade with you.”

“We already _have_ trade, Thorin.” Thranduil returned the look with a sideways tilt of his lowered head.

“In gems, yes, but I want to offer you my farm goods.”

Thranduil’s brows rose.

“You live in a forest,” Thorin began, “unsuited for the planting of grains unless you clear your trees.”

“I would never hurt my woods.” The words left his lips in a hurry, as though he couldn’t assert it enough.

“That’s what I thought.” Thorin said, “Your people rely on the good-will of other lands to satiate your hunger.”

Thranduil pursed his lips, and drew his height. “My people are my business.” An edge of ice laced his voice. “The forest bears much food for us.”

Thorin did not appear convinced. “Pardon me for being blunt, though I suspect you expect nothing less from a Dwarf.”

Thranduil scoffed, jerking aside his gaze.

“I crave your arrows and your medicine.” Thorin continued regardless. “Should you be willing, we can negotiate the exact terms upon the first bushels of wheat in Erebor.”

Thranduil kept his eyes on the barren plain before them, brows furrowed in thought. The proposition was good, and if Dwarven earth could indeed prove fertile, this would render the obtaining of main foods a much simpler affair, and with far less travel by cart.

“Have you approached anyone else?” Thranduil asked, gaze strained on the river. “Dale, perhaps?” The words held the same chill as the wind prickling his skin.

“No. Not yet.” Thorin answered. “I wanted to tell you first.”

Thranduil’s frown deepened. He bit his lips, and stole a look at the Dwarf, who once again took to surveying his land. The sun, now low on the horizon, haloed Thorin’s dark hair, curled and tangled with streaks of silver framed by rays of gold. The furs on his shoulders stirred in the wind, and the bristles of his beard shone the brown of light bark. The lines on his face etched deeper shadows, a severity of age undeterred by the calm bestowed upon him by the Mountain. His lips, so soft despite the dry flakes of skin, pressed firm, echoing the minute pinch of thought in his eyes.

Thorin has changed, from the cobwebbed contempt of travel-weary bones to an ambitious king with grand visions and a hammer of will to match.

Yet Thranduil, ever-living, ever an observer to the tides of the world, remained fixed in his forest, as though a precious stone unmoved by the coursing of stream around it.

A chill shivered through the Elvenking, one that rooted not in the growing cold of the air and wind. Breaths left his parted lips, which were smooth and tinted, speaking a hushed waver of clouds swept away by the currents atop a hill of frosted rock. His eyes gleamed, the ice of blue melted by the wet burn melding lines to blurred blotches of colour. His hair, kept anchored by a silver, woven crown, fluttered about his cheeks unmarred by the passing of seasons, ever the fair silk, pale like marble cast by beams of the moon.

Thorin, only then sensing Thranduil’s gaze, turned toward him. Darker blue disappeared a slight behind the narrowing of lids, and the Dwarf grimaced, as though tasting something particularly foul.

“You’re _blinding_ to behold under the sun.” He complained, wincing as the Elf all but shone under the light.

Thranduil laughed, the sound a weak relinquish of breath. “…Then do not behold me.” He whispered, the sigh lost to the gaining howl of the wind.

“Hmm?” Thorin quirked his head, still squinting at Thranduil.

Thranduil closed his eyes. “Nothing.” He tugged a smile. “I will consider your proposal, King Under the Mountain.”

Thorin nodded.

A lapse in conversation hung between them, during which distant chatters of Kili and Tauriel floated into earshot as they battled the elements to start a fire.

“Come, Thranduil. You must be cold.” Thorin nudged his pony, and made his way down the path leading to the bottom of the hill.

“I’m fine.” Thranduil replied, but it was hardly a protest. He followed his host, a throb within his chest heavy and clenching.

A short ride later, Tauriel and Kili came into view.

“Here,” Tauriel pointed Kili to her left, “sit and block the wind with your shoulders.” They huddled around a pitiful flicker of flame amidst a nest of grass, trying in vain to save it.

“But it’s _freezing_ on this side.” Kili whined, but he did as instructed, wrapping his arms tight around his torso.

“Oh shush.” Tauriel chided him with a lopsided smile. “You aren’t so delicate, master Dwarf.”

“You could at least _pretend_ to care more about me.” Kili grumbled, and the two would have ventured into a bickering had Thorin and Thranduil not arrived.

“My Lord.” Tauriel stood, heels snapping together and head dipped in a bow.

“The fire’s dying!” Kili swooped down, hands cradling around the small pile of scorched, dead grass.

“Let it die.” Thorin said as he scanned their surroundings. “This is no place to rest and dine. We will find better shelter.”

Kili’s head shot up. He gaped at his uncle, betrayal abundant on every feature of his face. “This took us nearly an _hour_ to light,” He exclaimed, “And you said—”

“I changed my mind.” Thorin looked ahead, at the bend in the hill barely visible in the descending gloom around them. “We ride for now.” He jolted his pony, and started leading the way.

Kili stared after his uncle, then turned to Tauriel, and then to the Elvenking.

Thranduil did not meet his gaze, walking his horse after Thorin.

“…Why was he so insistent that we start a fire only to change his mind?” Kili whispered to his Elf maiden as they tailed their respective kings.

“He is a _king_ , Kili.” Tauriel lowered her head in reply. “He doesn’t need a reason.” But there was a knowing glimmer in her eyes, and no matter how much Kili asked about it, she kept her lips sealed.

Thranduil pretended the wind had not carried their shared words to his ears.

Before long, the party of four discovered a cove that shielded them from the billowing cold. After securing their horses, pony, and goat to a tree, they started a fire, this time with much more success and ease. While Tauriel unloaded their bags and laid out various blankets on the ground for her king, Thorin and Kili collected stones and set up a makeshift stove. With nothing apparent to do, Thranduil tended to their rides, and fed them water and carrots.

“Mmmm, nothing better than hot stew on a brisk spring night.” Kili rubbed his hands and held them close to the fire. He eyed the pot as Thorin plopped in the potatoes, peeled and chunked.

“Quit gawking and cut the onions.” Thorin tossed him a bag that thudded as it landed on the ground by Kili’s feet.

Kili picked up the bag by the bottom, and shook out five onions in total. “ _All_ of them?” He gaped.

“All of them.” Thorin handed him a small knife. “We need a hearty meal that will last us the night.”

“We’re staying in the wild?” Thranduil frowned, and joined the rest of the group by the fire. “Are you not holding a feast tomorrow? I will need time to prepare.” Across from him, Kili muttered with a pout, but started chopping and peeling the onions, wincing along the way.

“We’re only staying until first light. That will give you plenty of time.” Thorin answered, taking out a block of salt-cured pork from another bag. “Unless you want to brave the wind with only the moon to guide our way.”

“Elves see well with little light.”

“I’m a _Dwarf_ , and only I can navigate the path.”

“Are you sure cooking meat is wise?” Thranduil crossed his legs on a pile of blankets, and tugged his ankles close. “It might attract beasts.”

“Your Captain can take first watch.” Thorin cast Tauriel a glance. “If we’re lucky, we’ll return to Erebor with a kill.” He sliced the pork, and threw that into the pot as well.

That didn’t quite answer Thranduil’s question, but Thorin didn’t appear interested in continuing the topic. “Weren’t you the one adamant that cooking is more than tossing everything one can find into a boiling pot?” The Elvenking asked, arching a brow at his host in challenge.

“Was I?” Thorin mumbled, genuinely distracted or not difficult to discern.

“Yes. It happened this morning,” Thranduil said, “during breakfast.”

“Do you remember _every_ trivial matter with such clarity?” The corners of chapped lips twitched, and a glint appeared in Thorin’s eyes, downcast toward the pot.

“Having my skills in the kitchen slighted by a Dwarf who knows no better is _not_ a trivial matter.” Thranduil bristled to hide the flush in his ears.

Thorin had the gall to bite his lips to stifle a smile. “We’re not in a kitchen right now.” He replied, voice a teasing murmur.

Scandalized but speechless, Thranduil stared, mouth hanging apart as he fought to not splutter in ire. “…That’s _beside_ the point.” He finally managed to blurt out, equally incensed and flustered by the grin that blossomed on Thorin’s face.

Damn that Dwarf and his rugged charm.

“I can’t do this anymore.” Kili piped up, tears streaking down his cheeks as he blinked slowly and scrunched his nose. “Someone else chop these.” He shoved the onions aside, and wiped his eyes with a sleeve.

Thorin looked up at Thranduil, a brow raised.

Thranduil narrowed his eyes.

Was the Dwarf doubting his skills with a knife? The sheer _audacity_ – to assume the Great Elvenking of Mirkwood incapable of chopping mere _onions_. He’s slain more orcs than Oakenshield could fathom!

“Allow me.” Thranduil lifted his dainty chin, and summoned his characteristic flair of superiority.

Thorin’s brow rose higher, but he conceded, passing the onions.

To his credit, Thranduil was doing a might swell job for an Elf who hasn’t cut any vegetables for centuries. His knife skills were solid, albeit on the slower side, and the pieces he sliced were much more precise and uniform than Kili’s halfhearted butchering. However, before he could reach his final triumph, he made the grave mistake of rubbing an itch in his eye. For the remainder of cooking, up until the stew was ready, he nursed a stinging eye, and refused Tauriel’s offer to wash it out despite the tears streaming down his face.

“Are you done with your yelping and whining?” Thorin poked in good humour, handing Thranduil a steaming bowl of stew. “You act like a child with a stubbed toe.”

“I can _assure_ you, Dwarvenking,” Thranduil took the stew with a glare, “that my eye hurt far worse than any stubbed toes.”

“No way.” Kili reared on his rock, eyes wide. “Have you ever _stubbed_ a toe before?” He inhaled a hiss with a grimace. “Not a light affair, my Lord.”

“Elves do not stub toes.” Thranduil sniffed. “Elves are ever watchful and aware of their surroundings.”

“Says the Elf who smeared his own face with onion juice.” Thorin snorted, and offered a spoon as a peace offering when the Elvenking sent him a tight-lipped scowl.

Thranduil snatched the spoon without thanks. He looked over his shoulder, at the lone figure vigilant at the edge of the light. “Tauriel, come. Have some food.” He was feeling exceptionally outnumbered, sitting lonesome by the fire.

“I’m on watch, my Lord.” Tauriel turned, hesitance abundant on her brows.

“We are not in our woods.” Thranduil replied with an airy lilt. “There’s nothing here but empty, barren, lifeless land. Come.” He waved at the Elf maiden, smile dripping sweet.

Tauriel appeared alarmed at his expression, but she did as told, slipping her bow over a shoulder and joining the group.

“Nothing but empty, barren, lifeless land?” As expected, Thorin did not let his commentary slide.

“Oh you must forgive me, son of Thrain.” Thranduil turned his smile to the Dwarf as he filled a bowl for Tauriel. “I have grown so familiar with my forest _teeming_ with tall foliage and spritely creatures that your bare, icy plains become an awful lot more… _desolate_ in comparison.” He heaped plenty of pork into the bowl, as he knew Dwarves loved their meat, but were too proud and hospitable to utter a single protest. “Please, do pardon my words if I’ve expressed unintentional offense.” He shoved the bowl into Tauriel’s hands, smile stretching sharp.

Tauriel gaped at the bulge of pork and potatoes towering from her bowl, rendered mute as she’d been served by the king and used as prop for petty one-upmanship at the same time.

Thorin narrowed his eyes. Kili seemed on the verge of tears at the meager meat portions left in the pot. In the end, Tauriel shared her bowl with the Dwarves. Not that Thorin was any smidge intimidating. His poor nephew simply looked too pitiful, all but wobbly-lipped at the sight of watery stew.

“Bread?” Thorin asked the Elvenking, a good, sizeable piece in his hand.

Thranduil squinted at the yet another peace offering. “…Thank you.” He took it, and the rest of dinner passed without further mishap.

* * *

 

The air grew colder, stinging his cheeks. Thranduil sat with his knees drawn against his chest, a thick blanket wrapped tightly over his shoulders. Head tilted back, he watched the stars, a canopy of shimmering dust scattered across the inky depth of lingering winter night. Beside him, Thorin tossed two more logs of wood into the crackling fire, and brushed away the ash with a stick. A warm glow shone across his weathered, Dwarven skin, adding a glow of softness to his features where the harsh rays of the sun had carved.

“… _Three winters_ , I’d waited.” Thranduil broke the silence.

In the background, Kili stirred, a bundle under furs that mumbled at odd intervals before resuming his quiet snores.

“Many evenings I’d spent convincing myself that your promise of invite had been a whim of delirium,” The Elvenking murmured, “an unfounded fancy conjured by a mind dulled by incense and herbs…a mere fleeting thought, inspired by my attendance at your bedside.”

Where blood-soaked robes crumpled in a pile, reeking of iron and toils of war.

“Yet every morning,” he whispered, “I hoped once more, looking across my forest for a glimpse of the Mountain.” The flickering of flames danced on the white of his slender throat. “Only to receive nothing from you, _not one_ _letter_ of the word you’d sworn to give me.”

“I was _busy_ , Thranduil.” Thorin kept poking at the fire, gaze locked on the burning logs. “My people were without homes and my kingdom in ruins. If you wanted to visit, why didn’t you say so?”

Thranduil frowned, peeling his eyes from the sky. “Are you suggesting I should’ve invited _myself_?” He accused his host.

“You _could_ have.” Thorin sent him a glance, eyes dark despite the light. “I would have known you wanted to.” He said, before throwing the stick into the fire.

At loss of reply, Thranduil stared at his fellow king, a slight part between his lips and a small furrow on his brows.

Thorin took a heaving breath, and sighed, elbows plopping on top of his knees. “So, Elves _do_ sleep.” He cast a look over his shoulder, where Tauriel curled on her side, the tip of an ear peeking from a blanket.

“Yes,” Thranduil answered, “We do.” He lowered his eyes to the fire, and rested his chin on his knees. “We can go without rest for days, but the Wood-Elves think highly of dreams and the quiet of night, when the earth slumbers and the forest stills.”

“Are you not a Wood-Elf?” Thorin asked.

“Not always.” Thranduil let out a trickle of air. “They are my people, but they are, in many ways, more tuned to the heart than I. Sometimes, I fear they praise me more than the stars, but _they_ are the ones who have taught me much about what unfolds from the soul. They are free-spirited, which is why they need protection. Without guidance, they may have strayed.”

“You love your people. That much is without doubt.” Thorin said.

“Then you can understand, surely, why I did what I had done.” Thranduil turned, the minute knit of his brows now creased. “I couldn’t have slain the dragon.” He shook his head, curtains of hair shimmering gold. “I couldn’t have helped you reclaim your home.” He whispered, in fear that Tauriel would hear.

Thorin’s expression hardened as though a pond freezing in the winter. However, his eyes remained gentle behind a guarded glint. “…You must be cold.” He said, and shrugged off his pelt of a coat.

Thranduil grimaced as though pained. “ _Thorin_ —”

“Here.” Thorin ignored his rising protest, and wrapped the heavy cloak of fur on top of his blanket. “Dwarves are resilient to the outdoors.”

“And you think Elves are not?” Thranduil argued with half a heart, wounded that Thorin had not allowed him to continue.

“You don’t look it, not like we do.” Thorin said as though it justified his action. “You are also my guest.”

Thranduil peered at the Dwarvenking. “…Am I not a friend?” He asked, voice a mere breath.

Thorin paused, eyes flashing under the light of the fire as they stayed on those of the Elvenking’s. “You want to be a _friend_.” He replied, more statement than question.

Thranduil swallowed the urge to wince, and yanked his gaze away. “You’ve _changed_ , Thorin.” He said.

Thorin kept watching his face. “A lot has happened during the years you hadn’t seen of me.” He answered.

Thranduil parted his lips, but the words he wanted to speak caught at the tip of his tongue. “…You’ve grown wiser.” He said instead, fingers tight around the fabric of his leggings.

“I now have a home.” Thorin shifted atop the stone upon which he sat. “I’m not much for nomadic life.” His robes shuffled.

“Indeed.” Thranduil stared into the night, unseeing beyond the light that cast shivering silhouettes on the rockface behind them. “A king cannot afford such luxury.”

“Wandering without aim is only luxury when you are the Elvenking,” There was a tinge of bitterness in Thorin’s retort, “not when your people are starving and at loss of heart.”

Thranduil looked down.

The fire popped.

“…Traveling is also easier for an Elf,” Thorin added, voice tinted by a note of grumbling, “especially a pretty one.”

Against his better judgment, Thranduil felt the tips of his ears warm. It took him a few moments, but he eventually turned to face the Dwarf again, gaze fleeting. “…You think I’m pretty?” He asked.

Thorin appeared equally flustered, as though he hadn’t intended to blurt the commentary. “I thought you strove for more than that.” He grunted, and squared his shoulders.

Thranduil lowered his lashes, eyes keen on the ground between them. “…Even with my scars?” He whispered.

At the edge of his vision, Thorin frowned. “I thought that was Elven trickery.”

Thranduil’s gaze dropped further. “It wasn’t.” He mumbled, lips buried behind his knees.

Thorin’s eyes, so eager on his features, burned worse than the memory of dragon fire. A throb squeezed in his chest. Thranduil jerked his face away, hands clenching tighter around his legs. It was a mistake, revealing his most grievous injury in a moment of passion, purely for the vain purpose of proving his superiority in tragedy. It was a lapse in character he’d mourned many nights for, shame a lingering pungency at the root of his tongue undeterred by the gulping of wine.

“…Do they hurt, your scars?”

The question startled him. Unwittingly, Thranduil flinched, and gritted his teeth to snuff the curse aimed at his own nerves. “Not anymore.” He said, hair falling from his shoulders and cascading over his face.

Silence met his answer.

Then – a brush of calloused digits against his cheek.

Thranduil gasped, eyes flying wide as he balked from the touch. He swirled to gape at Thorin, lips parted but voice lost.

Thorin watched him, gaze steeled in the stubbornness notorious to his people. He was closer, hovering until his breath mingled with that of the Elvenking’s, his dark eyes peering with such potency of intention that Thranduil pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders, a tremor springing along his spine despite the heat wafting from the crevice where neck met cloth.

“…It’s soft.” Thorin murmured, leaning ever nearer. “Is it Elven magic?”

Thranduil’s heart galloped inside his chest. “Th-Thorin—”

Thick fingers once again touched his face, this time a firmer cradle, a thumb stroking the curve of his cheek. “Scarred or not, I see only beauty,” Thorin whispered, “that even the fairest of gems cannot compare.” His voice rasped, breath hot as he pulled Thranduil toward him.

Thranduil trembled, eyes stretched and lips agape. “…I—” He stuttered.

“Shush.” Thorin mouthed the word, gaze half-lidded. “…Shush now…” He tilted his head, and his lips, still chapped from the cold, brushed against Thranduil’s.

Thranduil gasped anew, a shiver surging through his body. His back arched, fists shaking around his blanket, and a pool of heat burst within him, spilling outward until an audible thud slammed from within his breast. A small, strangled noise stirred from his throat, but another press of lips, this time more insistent, muffled it. Lashes fluttering, he clung onto the broad shoulders before him, and opened for Thorin much like the blossoming of petals to the first inspiration of spring.

As though the melting of frost to the renewed warmth of life, Thranduil clutched on, frightful that the moment would pass and he would once again be left completely unassuaged. Eyes pinched closed and blanket forgotten, he kissed the Dwarf, the prickle of beard against his bare skin a sensation that riled his desire only greater. He knelt before the other king, and uttered a small moan between their shared breaths. As rough hands groped his sides and caressed his back, he squirmed and pressed, every touch equally thrilling and torturous against flushed skin shielded only by a tunic.

Thranduil sighed between the brief recesses of their lips, eyelids quivering apart to behold the sight of the Dwarvenking only to shutter once more, eager for more contact, the fervor inside his chest growing ever hotter. The fire was a dry bake against his frame. The air was biting where he was bare. Every sensation roused a shudder as though a spark igniting within him. A large hand wrapped behind the slender stem of his long, pale neck. He gasped, chest heaving, and hummed a deep moan as coarse lips feathered across his jaw and suckled where his pulse throbbed.

“… _Beautiful_ …” Thorin snarled, beard harsh against creamy skin cast gold by the fire. His nose nudged the crook right behind a pointed ear, and he took a long sniff, taking in the scent of Thranduil’s perfume, face nestled against glimmering, long hair as though the silvery streams of moonlight.

“Do you always smell this good?” Thorin asked, a hand stroking down a smooth chest peeking from a wide collar.

Thranduil shook as thick digits brushed over an erect nipple. “If you like it,” He whispered through shudders of breath, “I will wear it every day we are together.” Slim fingers slid along a chiseled arm, and slipped lower until a palm rested on a hard, strong thigh.

Thorin hissed. His face scrunched in a grimace. He seized Thranduil by the wrist, and tugged his hand away. “Wait.” He gritted, the sound a growl at the back of his throat.

Thranduil froze. A small hitch filtered through his parted lips. His eyes blinked open, and he gaped at Thorin, dawning fear as though ice crinkling inside him. “What is it?” He hushed, brows knitted, gaze searching. “What ails you? Did I misstep?”

“No, no.” Thorin shook his head, and pressed the pale hand against his chest. “This is…not the place.” He looked anguished, a wince in his eyes. “We are not alone.”

Thranduil stared at Thorin. He blinked in several successions before he glanced over their shoulders, at the huddled forms of Tauriel and Kili. “They are fast asleep.” He turned back to the Dwarvenking, protest abundant on his dark brows. “They won’t know if we keep quiet.” He whispered.

Thorin’s eyes widened. He appeared torn between shock and hilarity.

Thranduil’s frown deepened. His cheeks grew warmer. “… _What_?” He hissed.

A grin stretched across Thorin’s face. He laughed, and quickly swallowed the sound, which gurgled in his throat.

Thranduil bristled. Eyes round and bright with a glare, he pressed his lips, and pushed Thorin away before yanking the blanket back onto his shoulders.

“ _Thranduil_.” Thorin sighed, tickled exasperation saturating his features.

“Pardon my misconduct, King Under the Mountain.” Thranduil jerked his face out of Thorin’s view, and made a great show of adjusting the blanket and fur coat around his body. “I didn’t know the notion scandalized you. Please forgive me. It will not happen again.”

“Come now, Thranduil. That’s not what I meant.” Thorin reached forward, and placed a hand on the Elvenking’s shoulder.

Thranduil stiffened. “ _Why_ did you bring me here?” He demanded, though he made no indication of shying from the hand. “If this was not what you wanted, why did you pack for the night? Why did you lie about not seeing well in the dark?”

There was a brief lapse of speech behind him. “…I didn’t lie about that.” Thorin’s voice held a frown.

Thranduil swirled around, eyes ablaze. “Dwarves work in _mines_. _Surely_ your eyesight has adjusted to your surroundings.”

Thorin’s blink of understanding flattened to a deadpan stare. “Our mines are grand and brightly lit. They are not the dark, dank holes you expect them to be.”

Thranduil pursed his lips tighter, pride still stinging.

“Perhaps I can give you a tour once we return.” Thorin smiled, the expression infuriating to Thranduil, now spurned twice.

“Do not treat me a _child_.” Thranduil snapped. “I was King before your grandfather was even conceived!”

“I don’t mean to.” Thorin protested, and shuffled forward to place both hands on Thranduil’s shoulders.

Thranduil allowed the touch with much reluctance, as the gesture insisted that he faced the Dwarf.

“Is this how you wish to be treated,” Thorin peered at him, “stifled of passion in a quick tumble under a cliff?”

Thranduil glanced at the Dwarf, jaws clenched. “…Do you _pity_ me? Is that the reason you refuse me?” He asked, words curt.

“No. Never.” Thorin seemed horrified at the thought. His eyes were so sincere that Thranduil found them hard to behold.

“Then _why_?” Thranduil dropped his gaze, the terse line of his brows wilting to a saddened frown. “Why do you torment me with empty grasps at a dream?”

Thorin did not answer for many a moment. He watched the Elvenking, a pensive air about him. “...Do you really want me to take you in the slumbering audience of my nephew and your Captain of guard?” He asked in reply, incredulity tangible in every uttered word.

The question would’ve been laughable had Thranduil not flinched at the implication of how desperate he was. “…I wouldn’t have minded.” His head drooped lower, shame once again a curdling ache within him, dousing his desire to a discomforting chill.

This time, the silence buzzed, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Thorin’s gaze was heavy on his face, large hands a hefty weight on his shoulders.

“It was only three years, Thranduil.” Thorin whispered.

“How many ‘three years’ do you still have left?” Thranduil sighed the words, the edges of his vision burning hotter than flame against skin. “I am an Elf, and in _this_ , I am without time’s favour.”

The notion ladened the air between them. Thranduil expected Thorin to be appalled at the blatant mention of his fated mortality – craved it, even, just so he could grasp onto the tail of Thorin’s anger and regain his footing. However, Thorin allowed for no such farce. He had truly become a king worthy of his gloried halls of stone.

“You should rest.” Thorin leaned away. “Your journey to Erebor must’ve been strenuous.” His hands left needling cold where digits lingered.

Even colder was within Thranduil’s chest, but he took the offer. “I’m far from dainty, Thorin,” He tried to jest, “despite what exaggerations you may have heard regarding the constitution of Elves.”

Thorin smiled. “Even still, we’re deep into the night.” He stood. “I’ll take watch.”

Thranduil glanced at the Dwarf, as he could not yet meet the other’s gaze in full. His lips spread, as though to speak, but the words withered before they could form, falling like ash from his tongue. In the end, he only nodded, and moved to join Tauriel and Kili in their makeshift beddings.

“Your excuse against me bringing my elk,” He paused, blanket trailing behind him, “it was a ruse, wasn’t it.”

Thorin stopped his stoking of the fire.

“…You just wanted to give me a horse.” Thranduil tilted toward a shoulder, though his face remained curbed from the Dwarvenking’s view.

Thorin hummed what sounded akin to a chuckle. “You think too much, Elvenking. That is your shortcoming.” The stoking resumed.

Thranduil stewed on the thought, but in the end, he let out a huff, and took Thorin’s advice. Without another word to the Dwarvenking, he sat between Tauriel and Kili, and gave the young Dwarf a shove with a foot.

Kili jolted awake as he rolled to the edge of the beddings. “Wh—Wha…?” He blinked, and looked around, bleary and confused.

“Join your king in his watch.” Thranduil said, voice as cool as the night. “Are you not his accompanying guard?”

Kili mumbled and rubbed his face before crawling into a sitting position with much visible effort of will. Pleased by the obedience, Thranduil reclined onto his back in a glide of long limbs, pale hair spilling around him. He pulled the blanket and the coat to his chin, and closed his eyes. The fur tickled his cheeks. The musk of Dwarven royalty hovered around his nose. He pretended to not hear Kili grumbling about his “stupid Elvish ways”, and pointedly ignored the following question regarding why he had Thorin’s coat.

Sleep did not come to Elves the same way it did Men and Dwarves. However, after a week of rushed preparations and hastened journey, Thranduil was parched of rest, so he settled into dreamless slumber. When he woke, Tauriel was no longer beside him. Thorin’s face, free from all earthly troubles, greeted his vision as the first light of day washed across the barren plains glimmering with icy dew.

Thranduil watched, and allowed for a small smile.

His breath clouded before his lips, but he was warm, protected by blanket and fur, and a heavy arm draped over his shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't spend as much time as I would have liked revising this chapter, but I hope it was an enjoyable read regardless.
> 
> Thanks for the support! Feedback would be lovely. <3


	4. Parch

** Parch **

Frost lingered still in the shade upon the Dwarvenking’s return to his city. His subjects bowed and called out to him, to which he smiled and nodded in return. The morning market was already bustling with merchants and traders, stall-keeps hollering the best bargain over the cheery ruckus. Wrapped in shawls of wool and coats stuffed with cotton, citizens and visitors of Erebor alike shuffled through the crowd, parting with practiced ease as the King’s party passed through.

With a blanket over his shoulder, Thranduil watched, surprised by the casual greeting from the common people to their king. In fact, Thorin wasn’t even the center of commotion. The crowd of Dwarves and menfolk of Dale openly gawked at the Elvenking, pointing and chattering in unabashed excitement. Some waved at him, and he nodded back with a tentative smile, brows shadowed by a tilted frown, unfamiliar he was to such magnitude of informality.

Yet more discomforting was the knowledge he hasn’t bathed since the day before. After a night in the wild, his hair had strays and tangles he could not tame with his digits. What a haggard sight he must make in their eyes, dull-faced with bits of dirt stuck on the fringe of his overcoat.

“My people are taken by you.” Thorin slowed down his pony until they strolled side by side. “Many of them have never before seen the great Elvenking of Mirkwood, reputed as fairest in all the lands.”

“What a preposterous notion.” Thranduil uttered an airy scoff. “Whoever spread such rumour surely has never met Lady Galadriel of Lothlorien.” He spoke with lightness. “Her beauty outshines the sun.”

“If she is the sun, then you shall be the moon and the stars.” Thorin smiled, the expression softening the edges of his eyes. “All the more precious at a time when light is scarce.”

Thranduil pressed his lips, gaze pointed onwards. “My son Legolas is much more beautiful.” He raised his chin, a pillar in his perch upon his horse. “He is the inspiration of spring, the brisk, evening air of a warm day, the gentle strum of lute and stream, the fresh green breaking from bark and branch, and the sweet fragrance of buds, that of puckered petals ripe and adorned with drops of dew.”

Beside him, Thorin chortled into his nose.

Thranduil swirled toward the Dwarf, glare wide.

“I apologize.” A perpetual grin afflicted the King Under the Mountain. “You have a way with words.”

Thranduil narrowed his eyes. “Never take humour from a father’s love for his child.” He said, though the clipped edge of his voice lessened after a nod of apology from Thorin. “The love of a parent is boundless.” He took to surveying the market once more. “At least, the love of a good parent.”

“I have no doubt you are most kind to your Elfling.” Thorin replied, the melodious lilt and ebb in his voice denoting that he was merely making conversation. “He takes after you, as a son would to a father he admires dearly.”

Thranduil froze, joints seizing. The comment stung, despite the amicable intentions from its speaker – its ignorant, well-wishing speaker.

“Indeed.” Thranduil said, eyes glazed forward, hands tight around the rein of his horse. “But you do not know his mother.”

Thorin blinked. He turned his head, a crease between his brows.

“Tell me of this market of yours, King Thorin,” Thranduil announced before the question in Thorin’s gaze could form on his tongue. “What are your main trades? Which realm spins your silks and which one buys your jewels?”

Thorin only frowned deeper, a glimpse of his princely self flickering in the dark eyes of a king. The youth with a braided beard would have pushed for answers, urged by the comfort of knowing. However, Thorin closed his lips, and took a breath through his nose. When he spoke, he talked of silk worms and weddings of wealthy tradesmen, filling the silence as he’d been asked until they reached the foot of the mountain.

Once their rides were stowed in the stables, Thranduil bid farewell to Thorin, who strode immediately to his duties of the day, soil still dusted in his hair. Glad for a moment of reprieve from attentive eyes, Thranduil sighed, and eased the ache in his shoulders of posture meticulously kept. Despite his reluctance in admitting exhaustion, Thorin was right in declaring his trip to Erebor a taxing affair. The journey would have been fine had Thranduil not insisted a preparation of weeks into mere days.

He had been anxious to leave, overjoyed at the invitation from Erebor but bitter still that he was overjoyed. Packing for a formal party of Elves made a bout of frenzy previously unseen in the kingdom of Mirkwood. His poor, overworked butler Galion tripped on the stairs and fell to a mighty hit on the head, resulting in his much-protested stay behind enforced by the healers.

Tauriel has been doing commendable work as substitute caretaker of Thranduil’s personal matters. She was quick of mind and flexible, dedicated in effort of keeping attuned to Thranduil’s temperament and needs. However, she clearly would have enjoyed a less frantic schedule as both Captain and butler, especially given her growing fondness for the younger Prince of Erebor. She uttered no whiff of complaint, but anyone with the minutest eye for detail would have noticed her lingering look toward Kili as she followed her king back to his guest chambers.

Soaking in the bath, Thranduil dabbed his face with a cloth steeped in ointments, and turned his head to aid the Elf maiden washing his hair. “ _Tauriel_?” He called, and the shadowed silhouette of his Captain appeared on the screen separating his naked form from the rest of the room.

“ _Yes, my Lord_?” Tauriel bowed.

“ _Go about your own business for the rest of the day_.” Thranduil said, the water rippling flakes of herbs as he moved.

Silence met his words.

“… _My Lord_?” Came a tentative reply.

“ _I wish to explore the great halls of Erebor before the evening feast_.” Thranduil gestured an attendant, and put the cloth down on the offered platter of gold and rubies. “ _I will remain inside the gates, so you have no reason to worry_.”

Tauriel shuffled. “ _But_ … _my Lord_ —”

“ _With guards at every corner, I’m sure my life will not be threatened_.” Thranduil reclined in his bath, and closed his eyes. “… _Or do you seek to offend our host by assuming his protection inadequate_?” He asked.

“ _That’s_ —… _That’s not what I mean to say, my Lord_.” Tauriel replied, protest quelled to a slight grumble.

“ _If the lack of work offends your diligent nature_ ,” Thranduil waved toward the screen, “ _See if you can discover small blossoms to weave into my Crown. I will wear a simple robe tonight, but there is no reason to lack embellishment altogether_.”

“ _Of course, my Lord_.” Tauriel answered, rejuvenated of conviction. “ _Right away_.” She bowed, and walked to the door at a brisk pace, enthusiasm abundant in the light patter of her booted footsteps.

Lashes fluttering atop the white of his cheeks, Thranduil smiled, and breathed a sigh through his nose before sinking deeper into the steaming water. Behind him, the Elf maiden rinsed his hair, and reached for a row of small vials propped by another attendant.

“ _Rose and orange leaves for today_ ,” Thranduil instructed, “ _With a drop of pink peppercorn_.”

The maiden hesitated. “ _But my Lord_ ,” She said, “ _you wore them yesterday_.”

Thranduil’s brows furrowed a slight. He opened his eyes, icy blue wreathed by dark bristles of bark. “ _Yes, I did_ , _and I will wear them again_.” He pinned the maid with a look over the curve of his shoulder. “ _I will wear them however many days hence until I myself tire of them_.”

The maiden gaped at him, cheeks and ear-tips flushed. “ _O-Of course, my Lord_.” She shrank under his gaze. “ _I did not mean to impose_.” She bowed her head, chest caved and hands clutched.

“ _Then_ don’t.” Thranduil scolded. Mood soured by meddlesome tongues, he stood from the tub, and stepped out onto the rug. Water streamed down his bare frame. Rivulets wept from his gleaming hair. The maid, scatter-fingered and flustered, chased after him to apply the oils. He allowed her to fuss, and waited until he stopped dripping to sit by the fire.

Once robed in fresh clothes, Thranduil took a glance at the mirror. Deeming his appearance presentable, he ordained that none of his subjects were to tail the train of his gown, and left them to fret in his chambers. One positive in leaving his butler behind was that no one dared to poke and probe when he clearly had no mind for humouring insubordination. With Tauriel distracted and an example made of the maid, Thranduil was entirely left alone to roam, much to his pleasure, and he spent his first hour of freedom mapping the corridors closest to his temporary quarters.

The famed grand halls of Erebor were truly magnificent, a manifestation of Dwarven ingenuity in the carving and rendering of stone. Grand columns shouldering the weight of the mountain towered beyond the tallest cavern in Thranduil’s palace. Where his Mirkwood home assumed the natural formation of caves, Erebor stood entirely by the centuries-honed skill of Durin’s folk, the raw beauty of the mountain sculpted into an artwork of bold arches, with spectacular etchings that rivaled in detail the embroidered style preferred by Elven eyes.

Thranduil was so engrossed in the studying of wall trimmings that he hadn’t noticed the approach of a Dwarf until a cough startled him out of his avid scrutiny. Long tresses swishing in a turn, he looked beside him, and found, to his great alarm, that Thorin had discovered him crouched on the floor, trying to decipher the language of his people. For a silent moment, the Elvenking gaped, mind racing to scour an excuse from the embarrassment prominent in his thoughts. The tips of his ears reddened, and he shot up to his feet in a flurry of shimmering silks, hands smoothing the impeccable fabric of nonexistent wrinkles just to stall the urge to stammer like an Elfling caught sneaking to the cellars.

“King Under the Mountain.” Thranduil nodded, some slivers of composure regained. “What brings you here? I’d assumed you riddled with council meetings until the feast this evening.”

Thorin frowned, looking mighty perplexed before a glint flashed in his eyes and a grin spread across his lips.

Thranduil blinked, his own brows furrowing. Now that the initial surprise had ebbed, he realized that there was certain _oddity_ about the Dwarvenking. The weight of his gaze did not race Thranduil’s heart, and his stature appeared softer, though the play of light and the casual garbs he wore could easily have constituted the illusion. Thorin has fixed more braids in his hair as well, and his beard looked to be less prickle and more fluff. His features seemed to have shed a fraction of their age, but Thranduil was well aware that the turbulence of heart reflected more on the lines of the face.

“My meetings finished early.” Thorin replied with much chipper in his voice, more than Thranduil has heard in decades. “So I decided to take the time to survey my city.” The Dwarf clasped his hands around his back, and smiled at the Elvenking.

Thranduil couldn’t help but stare. “…Alone?” He tilted his head, incredulity between his brows.

Thorin shrugged. “Are you not alone as well?”

At that, Thranduil found himself effectively silenced. “Of course.” He tried his lips at a smile, but the gesture was lackluster at best. “I felt a walk in my legs, and since I have the rest of the day to my own company, I thought to admire the work of your people.”

“Oh?” Thorin raised a brow. “For a moment, I thought I caught you mid-attempt at stealing our language.”

Thranduil froze. His horror at being found committing the worst offence possible to Dwarven-kind shattered to shame the moment Thorin took one look at his face, and burst into hackling laughter.

Thranduil once again felt the urge to gape, utterly at loss of words. Was Thorin ill? Not only did his voice sound a few tones too high, his demeanor had undergone a complete overturn, more akin to the warmth of a hearth than the biting sting of a weathered axe. Now that his hair swayed under the light, it appeared lighter too, more curled and styled than flowing free. He held his belly as he laughed, which he’s never before done, and his robe…looked…more…like a _dress_.

Thranduil blinked. While far from being savvy in the fashion of Dwarves, he was sure the article of clothing was _definitely_ a dress.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Thorin shook his head amidst his snickering, and wiped a tear from his eyes. “You look so much like a frightened fawn I couldn’t help myself.”

Thranduil bristled at the comparison. However, before he could return the comment in kind, Thorin slammed a hand on his chest, and held the edge of his skirt in a bow that looked disconcertingly like a curtsy.

“Lady Dis, Daughter of Thrain, at your service, O Great Elvenking Thranduil.”

Thranduil fell speechless for the umpteenth time. This was Thorin’s sister, his last surviving immediate kin. “…Lady Dis,” He echoed in a whisper before at last snapping out of his stupor. “Thranduil, son of Oropher of Greenwood the Great.” The words blurted from his mouth before he could regain his proper bearings, an old habit incited by a similar manner of address. For the love of saplings, when was the last time he’s had to introduce himself? Ear-tips once again flaming red, he shook his head at the blunder, face a grimace, and bowed, a hand pressed against his breast. “Ahh…Thranduil of Mirkwood, I am honoured by your gracious hospitality.”

Lady Dis chortled so hard that she snorted. “Gracious? I just pretended to be the king to see you stutter like a tongue-tied babe! I’ve known you so long as the callous snob that I didn’t think it possible to play a jest, but this would mark the second time I’m surprised today – you mistaking me for my brother would be the first!”

Thranduil was so ashamed he genuinely considered flinging himself over the railing to plunge to a quick death in the depth of Erebor’s mines. Even worse was the fact that, for a moment, he truly believed Lady Dis to be Thorin, and the thought riled in him much turmoil, as he couldn’t tell apart the Dwarf who held his affections from a sibling.

As though sensing his inner torment, Lady Dis waved a hand, and shot him a grin. “Oh quit your fretting. You’re not the only one to make this mistake. If I wanted to, I can probably fool most of the Mountain.”

“…Is…that so…?” Thranduil’s gaze lowered to the floor, hands flat against his thighs.

“You aren’t _nearly_ as ornate or haughty as the grandfather made you to be.” Lady Dis ventured forward, and quirked her head to peek at the Elvenking’s face. “He also called you sickly like a bean stalk with a face like the white of a hard-boiled egg.”

Thranduil’s eyes flashed as he looked up. His jaws clenched.

“He’s kind of right. You _are_ fair and hairless.” Lady Dis smiled. “But much prettier than I imagined you to be.”

It was then that Thranduil realized how formidable a foe Lady Dis would make in the arena of political haggling had Dwarven women not been so few and precious. The realization was quickly followed by another, in which the Elvenking paled at the thought of his Captain courting young Kili.

Best not bring up the subject. Tauriel could fend for herself.

“No wonder Thorin spends nights brooding over you like a lovesick, unbearded lad, sighing at the moon and plucking a harp.” Lady Dis kept inspecting him, even going as far as to circle him. “True, you’re too tall and a bit lanky, not to mention you can’t bear him any proper Dwarf children.”

Thranduil had to grind his teeth to keep at bay the urge to blush crimson. He was not to be _appraised_ by Thorin’s family like—like _breeding livestock_!

“But my brother is adamant to name Fili heir, so I suppose the legitimacy of Thorin’s son as the next King Under the Mountain is irrelevant.” Lady Dis mused aloud, still studying the Elvenking.

Thranduil finally regained his voice. “I am no Elf maiden!” He exclaimed, a tint of red dusting across his cheeks.

Lady Dis frowned. “Don’t Elves carry regardless of sex?”

“For me to _bear child_ would be a rarity so _unlikely_ that the oceans may very well dry to land before I _conceive_ —” Startling at the absurdity of his own statement, Thranduil gave his head an agitated shake, hair fluttering about his face. “Why do I speak of this?” He berated himself. “I’ve never shared bed with Thorin.”

“You haven’t?” Lady Dis frowned. “I was so sure that was why he asked you to accompany him for a night to the plains.”

‘ _You and me both_ ’ almost escaped the confines of Thranduil’s mouth, but he was quick to swallow it whole.

“He must really like you.” Lady Dis smiled, this time without mirth. “I hope you know what you’re getting into, Lord Thranduil, son of Oropher. Dwarves don’t _entertain_ in the matters of heart.”

“Neither do Elves.” Thranduil protested the insinuation.

“ _Good_.” The smile on Lady Dis’s face sharpened as a steely edge flashed in her eyes. “Because while I _like_ you, I can’t say I’m particularly pleased about my brother’s lineage ending by your intrusion.”

Thranduil stilled. He waited, knowing she has yet finished.

A smirk formed on her lips – those that were so alike to Thorin’s. “There are many fertile, marriageable Dwarven maidens in this mountain that can bear him _many_ healthy, Dwarf children.” Lady Dis said, “However, if he’s _happy_ with you, I will restrain my tongue.” She didn’t need to speak on, as the implication for otherwise was obvious.

“You are convinced I am taken with him.” Thranduil replied, the frost of his composure returning to him akin to the fit of a well-worn glove. “I cannot be held responsible should my intentions be strictly platonic at best.”

At that, Lady Dis leveled him with a stare that frequented her brother’s face. “You arrived here a month ahead of schedule and brought more personal effects than gifts to the king. If you’re not offering yourself, then what are you parading around in fine silks for?”

There was little winning against an argument so sound. Thranduil found her gaze difficult to hold, so he turned his face aside, as though to study the intricate writings on the wall. The warmth of the torches cast a soft, golden glow to his skin. His rosy lips parted to permit a quiet expiration. Dark, striking brows tilted to a slight knit of thought. Thick lashes shrouded the starlight blue of his eyes, and a lock of hair slipped from his shoulder to frame the smooth line of his jaw, hovering just over the long stem of his neck, exposed to the cold until fabrics gathered just below a glimpse of collarbones.

“Stop that.” Lady Dis blurted.

Thranduil looked to her, a frown on his face.

Lady Dis squinted at him. “…Nevermind.” She let out a sigh of burden. “He likes you.” Her gaze became gentler. “But you need to speak with him, and make clear of your intentions. Otherwise…” She frowned, “He might take serious considerations to wed you.”

There was no doubt in the warning in her voice. Thranduil averted his eyes to the floor. He understood that such a joining would complicate matters beyond repair. “I know.” He murmured.

Lady Dis watched him. With another sigh, she walked forward, and patted him on the arm where she could reach – a mother’s gesture. “But dwell not on that now. There will be time for that later.” She smiled. “I hope you’ve prepared for tonight, Thranduil, son of Oropher.” Her eyes twinkled:

“Thorin’s been planning this feast for _years_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this chapter was to your liking! The next one will be very long, so the update will take some time.
> 
> I have no idea how Lady Dis is as a character, so I took the liberty of writing her as she naturally unfolded. I also made up the part about her being Thorin’s only immediate kin still alive. I have no idea if that is true. XD


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